I covered my ears with hands formed into a position as if it is scooping from a lake.
Someone is aggressively bashing the door. It's funny how one suddenly appears in your premises without any notice — after you've shut down ties and fortified a citadel to keep it from bugging your skin.
A yell echoed. Why does it have to be a roar?
I tried to peek from the small space above the door, a final glance before I cut the last rope that has bounded me to you.
"Let me in, we're not done yet!"
I've been confined in this loop of running away and back. I'm more than certain this time after I hear those words escape your dull-witted head.
It's like a broken old record, with mouths stretched out to speak the same overrated narrative in a voice worn out by time as it fades into a terrible halt only to repeat the same statement over again.
Say, how often do you believe your tales? Or shall I say, lies?
They were the same theories you have persuaded yourself into believing albeit the deterrent issued.
You were given signs.
Subtlety isn't a sin; insensibility is.